


Ignite me (and hold me down)

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Content, Bathtime shinangans, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Nudity, Set right after the credits rolled on "JSS" in Alexandria, Sex, Vaginal Fingering, pwp basically with feelings or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5181200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because god- it had been a long time since he'd wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignite me (and hold me down)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlannasTara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlannasTara/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: Liddy asked for Carol/Spencer: bubble bath, so here we are. Blame her. – Set after the events of "JSS" so consider it a version of what might have happened after the credits rolled.
> 
> Warnings: adult language, adult themes, drama, sexual content, nudity, vaginal fingering, sex, sexual healing, pwp basically.

He wasn't really thinking much beyond scrubbing off the blood and taking as hot a shower as he could stand as he staggered into the house. Stumbling, shell-shocked and internally reeling up the stairs towards his room. One part exhausted and the other hyper-aware – still riding the adrenaline high – as he adverted his eyes from Aiden's empty room. From the closed door of the master bedroom at the end of the hall. His mother hadn't slept there since it had happened. But after Aiden, well, he'd hated it up here. There was a stillness - a sullenness – that had taken up residence. Like the house itself was in mourning.

He left his clothes where they fell. Half-dried blood trails catching here and there as he yanked his towel out from under the towering pile of dirty laundry he'd been ignoring and wrapped it around his waist. Wrinkling his nose at the stale, musky smell as he angled down the hall, bare feel curling into the plush carpet.

He slowed a fraction when he realized the bathroom door was closed – frowning. But for some reason he didn't stop. He was beyond the pause. Fed up and aggressively bold as he stalked down the remaining space and turned the knob with a brutal twist - that came more from his shoulders than anything - and promptly regretted everything-

_Because the bathroom was already god damned occupied._

* * *

 

He froze in place, feeling slightly outside of himself as distantly, his cheeks burned. Coasting on the long ingrained echoes of past childish mistakes. Things like,  _always knock first._ And  _oh god, look away already!_  And especially  _turn around, walk away, apologize a hundred times but for the love of crap do it from the other side of the god damned door!_

Instead, all he really managed to do was stare down the length of his nose, slightly cross-eyed. Berating his brain for being so fucking traitorous - insistent about doing nothing more than its best 'deer in a headlights' impression as the unmistakable sound of bath water  _lap-lap-lapping_  filled in stuttered silence.

Carol, for her part, just stared.

* * *

 

He watched with self-criminating interest as the wash cloth that had been folded up and draped over her eyes slowly gave into gravity. Sliding slick between the naked V of her breasts as she fixed him with an inscrutable look. Vaguely aware of the shucked pile of her bloody clothes and the dark, unfamiliar cloak that was littered across the powder blue tiles as the thinning bubbles highlighted the small, rounded plush of her chest – yearning like a tease. Discretely masking the lax, rose-brown of her nipples in a way that made him strangle a groan at the last second. Suddenly very aware that his prick was chubbing up under the thinness of the towel and honestly, while it didn't exactly feel that way, his erection really was the _least_ of his problems.

* * *

 

"Spencer?"

He swallowed, awkward, thick and stupid as the gentle  _plink-plink_ from the sink threatened to edge out the low, crackling hum of popping bubbles. Inwardly cursing himself for not even thinking to bring a change of god damned underwear as the glint of Carol's knife – propped within easy each on a side table – threatened to blind him.

"Yeah?" he answered, so far out of his depth that he was content to just fucking  _sink_  and hope to god she wouldn't take anything he did, or well- didn't do the wrong way. Refusing to acknowledge the warm little tendrils of arousal that were unfurling in his belly as she stretched out the slightest of bits. Pink, pruny little toes curling along the porcelain rim as she watched him – blue eyes expectant and invitingly warm as he clung to his last scrap of self-control and managed to wrench his eyes safely upwards – determinedly examining the glitter flecked contours of the ceiling.

_Because god- it had been a long time since he'd wanted._

"The hot water tank in my house got damaged in the attack, one of the pipes shot through I think," she explained slowly, like she was testing each word before she let it loose. Forcing them to come out even –  _controlled_  – as the shifting light from outside seemed to throw a spotlight on her bloody clothes. "Tobin is looking at it but- Deanna told me it was okay to come up and use yours. She said no one would be here. No one would mind."

From where he was standing, there didn't seem to be a mark on her. It wasn't her blood then. Something in the back of his brain twitched at that, threatening to make a fuss about it before he forced himself to abandon it. Distracted when she said his name again. Forcing him back to the here and now as all the baggage he was carrying since Dad, since Aiden, since the start, suddenly condensed like lead weights. Crushing down on his shoulders like the beginning of a panic attack.

"Spencer?"

"Yeah?" he croaked, chancing a quick look back down – catching a glimpse of glistening skin and a sharp little chin he kind of wanted to cup in his palm before he snapped them back up again.

"Is it? …Is this okay?"

He blinked, eyes painfully dry as the bathroom fan hummed white noise in the background. Swallowing down an incredulous sound mostly rooted in self-disgust and exhaustion. She was asking  _him_  if this was okay. Like the tables had turned and she figured  _he_  was the one that somehow deserved the apology. He didn't think it was possible but somehow that made him feel a hundred times worse.

_Hell, why was he even still here?!_

' _Jesus Christ, pull yourself together Monroe,'_ a silent voice hissed, echoing in his ears like it had been said aloud rather than in the privacy of his own headspace. Trying and failing to ignore the painful little flinch when he realized it sounded suspiciously like Aiden's.

"Yes," he rasped, pathetically grateful when his brain automatically supplied the words. "Of course. I'm sorry. I should have knocked. I'll just-" he pivoted awkward on his heel. Bare feet squeaking across the tiles.

"Or, we could share?"

He stopped dead, towel threatening to make a bid for freedom as he wavered in place.

"What?!" he blurted unintelligibly, forgetting about his silent communion with the ceiling as he wheeled around to face her. The word echoing out – just a fraction of a decibel too loud – as the ghost of a smile twitched across her lips.

Only she wasn't embarrassed, he realized. She wasn't even teasing. Instead, she was looking right back at him with an expression he'd seen in Rick's face, on some of the others, but _never_  on hers. Something that existed between haunted and longing as she sat up straight in the bath. Small breasts now fully on display as her eyes traveled down the length of him.  _Hungry._

It was a look his hind brain recognized flat out.

"But…" he started, not entirely sure if he had something to say or just needed time to process.

"Sometimes, sometimes we all just need," she whispered, warm and coiling out as something in his gut unclenched and yeah-

As the towel wrapped around his waist dropped and he reached out to take the hand she held out to him like an offering. After everything that had happened today, maybe she was right.

* * *

 

It didn't take him long to figure out how it was going to be.

_How she wanted it._

_How she wanted him._

And truth be told, all he could do was  _let_  her take it.

Suddenly desperately needy to be pliable, useful -  _used_.

And when she finally sank down on him, the sound he let go of wasn't anything recognizable or even human. He lost his words as his spine arched and she let go of a hitchingly contented sigh. It was a whimper and a growl all melded together into one. Wanton and needy and so god damned _angry_  - with himself, the world and all the dreams that had died with it - he could have sworn she felt it too.

The burn of frustration. The keen sear of loss. Even the twinned inability to move past it. Everything they had. Everything they were. Condensing and convalescing together as the water spilled over the sides of the tub in rocking waves. Adding a layer of something more to the moment as her nails dug into the curve of his shoulders as he found her neck with his lips and tried to thank her without words.

He reached his pleasure before she found hers. Rediscovering a simmering sort of pride that rose up in his throat like warmth, peace –  _protection_  – when Carol cocked her head and smiled as he slipped a hand between them. Circling that delicate little nub as he ground up into her – ignoring the discomforting surge of over-sensitivity as he softened slowly. Keeping it up until she finally shattered and stiffened. Slumping across his chest as their breathing slowed back down together and his hands were idly carding through the wispy-short strands of her hair. Knowing, somehow, that he didn't have to say anything at all.

* * *

 

It didn't occur to him until later - much later when he was crawling into bed and shivering at the chill of his own sheets. Sated and still riding that low buzz of pleasure, that there was no way she hadn't heard him coming.

She could have called out when he'd slumped up the stairs.

Fumbled with his rifle.

Banged around in his room.

Creaked across the hall to the bathroom.

But she hadn't.

She hadn't said a word.

She'd  _let_  him come.

_She'd done it on purpose._


End file.
